


Where It Begins

by abele



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, V Spoilers, introspective, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 15:02:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18317678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abele/pseuds/abele
Summary: How does one become stronger? By deciding slowly; and by holding firmly to the decision once it is made. Everything else follows of itself. – Nietzsche





	Where It Begins

**Author's Note:**

> So this was just a short that I typed up. There's a slight reference to Eva here and Vergil's belief that she didn't come back for him, and I had Sparda be the one to give him his book for a brief emotional reference to his father, but no real spoilers if you know who V is at this point.

“You just gonna sit there big guy?” The shattered memory asks him as he looks out amongst the rubble of the old family home. There’s nothing here anymore, nothing that calls back to the semblance of the family that once lived here, just broken marble and cracked glass.

He fits right in.

The form that the creature has taken as it flies around his head is either a mockery or a warning, he’s yet to determine which it is. How apt it is that it has taken the form of one of Mundus’s most loyal of servants, but is it now telling him that it’s his most loyal or is it reminding him how easy it was to be unmade, and of the future that rests just over the horizon with each passing hour? The spells and contracts that mar his skin tell a story if one is able to read the language set out before them. The story of a time long past and of the dangers of hubris.

It’s his own version of the tale of Icarus. Complete with the fall.

Oh how he fell.

And look at him now, broken and shattered by his own hand, left to fade to dust in the remnants of the old family home. Like a memory already forgotten.

The other half didn’t even turn around to look at him before he left. So inconsequential and so _weak_ that he hadn’t even been given that slight respect. It’s fair he figures. If their roles had been reversed, he’s not sure he would have paid any mind to the other either.

“Really? So that’s it then? You’re just going to lay there and die?” The creature asks him – snarls or spits at him is a closer description – and he finally turns his head to look at it.

“And what, pray tell, would you have me do?” He asks and his voice is soft and strange to his own ears, dry and unaccustomed to use yet.

“Go kick his ass.” It says and the chuckle that escapes him tears at his throat and launches him into a coughing fit that wracks his whole body.

“I’m afraid that is out of the question.” He replies once he’s settled himself, already cursing his weakness even if all who are witness to it are broken fragmented pieces of himself.

“Well do something.” It tries again. “This can’t be how you want it to end.”

“Amor fati.” He says with a tired sigh. How is he already tired? How is it already so bone deep and all consuming?

“So that’s it? It’s your fate to die here, is that it?”

“What are you and what do you want from me?”

“We are us.” It snarls. “Unfortunately.” It gives him a once over with that word.

“I see, and what would ‘we’ have me do?”

“Get up.” It says and he sighs and looks away. Get up when he barely has the strength to lie here? Get up and do what? Get up and go where? With this crumbling body and the ticking clock of the inevitability of his own destruction hanging over his head like his own personal sword of Damocles? “Get. Up.” It snaps again, coming over and catching some of the newly black strands in its claws as it tugs.

Pain. Pain over so simple of an action. How _pathetic_.

The creature seems to give up, making a noise of frustration as it takes off into the house. He knows that it has not abandoned him, it can’t. They’re connected now, for better or worse. He wonders slightly why it seems to have more life in it then he does. By all accounts whatever he is now is closer to the original Vergil then that creature is and yet he feels like a hollow shell filled up with old nightmares that have more soul then he does.

A soul.

That useless human _thing_. That’s all he was now though. Useless and human.

He looks at the spot on the ground where it happened. Where Vergil’s last stand truly occurred. The desperation in the action taken and the sweet call of victory that the newly unshackled demonic half gave when it was all said and done.

He didn’t even look back at him.

His fingers twitch in annoyance. On one hand, it’s a good thing that he hadn’t. He wouldn’t have just seen a weak and pathetic human. He would have seen _terror_ and _fear_. That would have been worse than anything else but yet to not even be worth a backwards glance was…

Well it was unacceptable.

 His arms are shaking and his elbows refuse to lock the first few times he tries to push himself up but this will not keep him down. He has made a choice to stand and either he will succeed or he will fall to ash, there is no other end result. The creature is back, watching him with eyes that see more than it lets on and he ignores it as he finally stands. The first few steps he takes are like a newborn colt, uncertain and unsteady but he grabs onto a crumbling wall next to him to ground himself.

It cracks and falls away under his weight – he does not mimic it. It’s a victory.

“So what’s the plan genius?” The creature asks and he stops to look at the burned photo that somehow still stands despite the rubble around it. Should it not have faded by now? Bubbled up and been destroyed in the scorching flames that brought this house down around it? Sparda’s face is nigh unrecognizable, but Eva’s face and those of Vergil and Dante are not.

_Eva…. Mother_

The remembrance of the woman brings forth a strange dichotomy of emotions with it. A mix of nostalgia and hate. The woman who birthed him and abandoned him. Good and evil. Just like Dante and Vergil. Maybe, she saw something that day when she made her choice. Maybe she’d known something in those last hours that neither son would ever figure out in her absence.

“We find Dante.” The words taste like acid as he says them and yet, it is clear that is the only path left open to him.

“What do we tell him?”

“The truth.” He says as he turns away from the painting. “The truth is after all, always stranger than fiction, and is its own weapon. Lies build empires and the truth makes them all fall.” He looks at the spot where the separation happened. “He seeks to build an empire, the other me. I intend to watch it _burn_ , and for that I need Dante.”

“You’re going to need clothes first.” The creature says with a kind of snorting sound.

“I am sure there is something still of use in this house.” He says. “Find it, and let us be on our way.” He stumbles slightly when he tries to move when it leaves and his hand catches the bookshelf and knocks over a few of the old and dusty tomes. He’s about to ignore it, but one of the covers catches his attention and he carefully bends down to pick it up in his hand.

He remembers this. The book of poems that Sparda gave him. It was the only frivolous thing that he’d ever imparted to Vergil before he left and he’s a little ashamed with how much he treasured it. He opens it up and sees the brightly colored pages. There’s no damage from the fire and something inside of him is pleased at that. It’s odd, to read the words and to remember them only after he’s done so.

Memory is a fragile thing, and it’s apparently the only thing as fragile as his body is right now. Disjointed memories that haven’t settled yet. Which parts of being Vergil does he not remember anymore? Which parts does he have that the other him cannot recall? Do they overlap at all?

He knows the answer to that, and it’s of course it does. It overlaps in the one area that Vergil would never be able to separate from either his human or his demon half.

 _Dante_.

No matter what, he’ll always remember Dante.

The clothes drop down practically on top of him and he glances up at the bird in slight irritation.

“Had to raid mommy dearest’s closet for some of that. You’re not exactly fitting anything else right now.” It mocks and he has to hold in the sudden desire to take the black jacket before him and rip it to shreds.

If he could waste the strength – if he even had the strength to do it – he might have. As it is, he just nods and sets about getting dressed. It’s not a lot, but it’ll do for now.

“Got you this.” The bird says and the silver cane drops down. It seems familiar but he can’t place it. “Doubt anyone here needs it more than you now.” It’s Sparda’s. He’s sure of it. The demonic taint of magic in the silver gives it away when he touches it. It’ll certainly come in handy when they need to defend themselves. “What’s that?”

“You seem to recognize everything.” He tells it. “You do not recognize this?”

“Nope.” It replies. “Let’s track the moron down. Shouldn’t be hard.”

“Let’s.” He puts the cane on the ground and the next few steps are not as shaky as the others were. “What shall I call you?”

“Griffon is fine.” Griffon says. “And you? Vergil?”

“No.” He says with a shake of his head as he stands at the threshold to the house. He looks down at the book in his hand but not back at the painting. “Call me V.”

He doesn’t look back as he walks out. He has work to do.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought


End file.
